“Everybody who doesn’t dance is a rapist!”
“That’s what they’re singing,” said the Polish/Swedish sailor sitting across from me.
“Ah, yes, Maskinen.”
My friends sat there kind of half smiling, not really sure what to do with our new acquaintance. Apparently this guy was a cook on a survey boat based in the Baltic who’s crew consisted of “the captain, the captain’s friend, another guy and me.” He was fresh off a voyage where they found a secret cave, some druids and some whiskey that was hundreds of years old; or so the story went.
“Now this is a drink” said the professor, returning to the table. “Dirty, dry vodka martini, splash of tabasco. They make it special for me her…”
“I hate to break it to you,” said the sailor, breaking in. ”But some nasty bastard put olives in your drink!”
We laughed, still a bit dumbfounded. Seems this is the sign we should move to the next place. Besides, Nivå was closing anyway.
We wander to the late night option, appropriately named Piraten. I tell someone I’m from Kiruna, the professor tells someone he’s from Budapest. The sailor steals energy drinks from behind the bar, my friend puts them back. We dance around half heartedly and Swedes scream the chorus to the Sounds’ We’re Not Living in America in my face.
I’ve had enough, and wander upstairs and adjust my scarf. ”Ping me tomorrow?” the professor asks.
“Of course,” I reply.